Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

  “Good news, bad news, news that don’t mean nothin’,” said Pickens. “Mary’s pinin’. She don’t truly know what’s happenin’, but, hell, she can guess.”

  He went to a shelf and took down some earthen bowls. He took the lid off a huge pot set on the back of the wood-burning stove and a heavy aroma filled the air. He reached for a ladle hanging on the wall and began dishing out portions for each of them. He said, “Lord only knows what’s in this, but it’s been cookin’ steady since Matilda came here. She says pore people allus keep somethin’ like it. Anything left over, seems like, goes into it.”

  They all tasted gingerly at first but then ate the tasty stew with great relish. They heard a sound without, and Pickens said, “Stubby. He can’t stay away from Mary long enough to swat a fly.”

  Stubby came into the kitchen. He said, “Pack animal. Bunch of guns and stuff. What the hell?” He looked at the kid and said, “’Scuse me. I keep forgettin’.”

  “Keep right on,” Mac said with her mouth full.

  Sam said, “Duffy’s stuff for the Comanches. Meant to swap some of your corral to them today.” He grinned. “Didn’t work out, so we took the guns.”

  “Where’s Matilda?” Stubby asked. “She should be lookin’ after Mary. Sure as hell it’s goin’ to storm. Everything’s goin’ haywire.” Stubby was tightly strung. “If the cows start for the river, I dunno what’ll happen.”

  “Whatever,” Sam said. “Best we should all get a bit of sleep. You want to show the kid here where she can bunk?”

  Stubby brightened appreciably at the thought of something he could take charge of immediately. “Sure I can,” he said, grinning at the kid. “Mary’ll want to see you, for sure!”

  The kid turned to Sam, her eyes wide with panic.

  Sam nailed her with a look. “You might as well get used to it. There’re ladies in this world. Not Maizies, ladies.” He measured the last word.

  The kid responded quickly. “You think I don’t know anything? Huh? Anyway, Maizie ain’t all bad—she kept that crazy Comanche from blowing off my head, didn’t she?” Mac’s voice gave the tiniest quaver. “You ... You … Sam Jones ...” Her voice trailed off, and her mouth shut tight again, little lines of bitterness showing at the corners.

  Sam said gently, “It ain’t like I didn’t ask, is it, kid?” She shook her head. Sam shrugged. Stubby looked from one to the other without understanding. Moseby started to speak, cleared his throat, then decided against it.

  In the silence, Mary’s voice could be heard calling. Stubby started as if shot and ran for the stairway.

  Pit said, “Best we wait before we go up now.”

  Matilda entered from outdoors, saying, “Whoooeee! It’s sure comin’ up to storm.”

  Sam asked, “Matilda, tell me somethin’. Is Mary in pain or anything? I mean, is she poorly?”

  “Lawsy me, no. Mens ain’t got a lick of sense when it comes to women havin’ babies. Animals, they know about. Womens, they’re scared over nothin’.”

  “She’s right,” said Pickens. “How’s the Ranger?”

  “Poorly. But he gonna live. He just needs some sleepy time,” said Matilda. “I give him some remedy. Now what about this one here? She sure needs some clean clothes.”

  Pickens said, “You know what? She’s about the size that Mary was years agone, ’fore you even came here. Why don’t you see what you can find.”

  “I don’t want no handouts,” the kid began. Then she looked at Sam and stopped. “I could sure use some sleep, though.”

  “We all could. But it seems like Mary might want to know a few things,” Sam said.

  Mac said, “I’m scared, Sam.”

  Stubby’s voice echoed in the stairwell. “Sam, bring up the kid, huh?”

  “Coming,” Sam said, and noticed that Matilda had her in a firm grip.

  Mac said, flinching, “No. I’m too—I don’t look right.”

  Sam said, “You could take that machete off. Maybe your coat?”

  She clung to the oversized jacket, although she allowed Matilda to take the machete. “I don’t ... I haven’t got a camisole.” Her voice was a whisper as Matilda removed the coat.

  “We noticed,” said Sam. “You think Mary’s gonna care?”

  The kid gave up her struggle reluctantly, never taking her eyes off Sam. Matilda let Mac go and she went slowly ahead of him, taking one stair step at a time. Stubby waited at the top, his face showing relief, pleasure, and curiosity all at the same time.

  They went into Mary’s room. She took one look at the frightened, embarrassed girl and said, “All right now, you men get. Leave this to us ladies.” She indicated to Matilda that she should remain. Mary was sitting up, propped up by pillows, radiant, smiling. The girl went, without hesitation now, to the side of the bed.

  Sam said, “You’re lookin’ right pert, Miz Stone.”

  “You get some rest now,” she said. “Both of you. Matilda and me, we’ll take care of this.” She reached out a hand to the girl. The men moved to obey, and she added, “Shut that door behind you.”

  In the hallway, Sam said, “A good day for her?”

  “She always perks right up durin’ a storm,” said Stubby. “Rain, thunder, lightnin’, it makes her feel good.” Downstairs, they sat at the table, drank Matilda’s good coffee, and went over details of the day. Rain began to fall.

  Sam concluded, “On the way back I got a feelin’, like someone was watchin’ us.”

  Stubby said, “That would be that son of a bitch, Ed Fielder. You mind I told you he went over? Stole my spyglass. You remember my spyglass, Sam.”

  “Your old man’s, right? From when he went to sea?”

  “Right. That Fielder’s a slimy rat. Raked him over the coals for foolin’ with Matilda. He quit without his pay.”

  “Took your glass with him, didn’t he? And Duffy pays.”

  “A-plenty.” Stubby looked up at Moseby, his earlier exuberance dissipated. “You goin’ to join up? I’ll sure pay.”

  “Not necessary,” Moseby told him. “Your friend here yanked me out of durance vile. Besides which, suh, I need a fight. It’s been too long.”

  Sam grinned. “All you rebels only need a cause. It’s in your blood, way I see it.”

  “Duffy,” said Moseby. “He’s cause enough for any man, I believe.”

  Sam squinted at him. “You said it’s been too long. Thought you weren’t in the war?”

  “No, I was too young, and apprenticed to the only doctor in three counties. Mine was a feud. You know about southern family feuds?”

  “Hell, we got ’em here,” said Pickens.

  Moseby bowed elegantly. “Well, that was the reason for my departure from Alabama. I was the better rifle shot.”

  Sam shook his head. “It always comes to that for some. Killin’. That fellow Max—had to kill him. Had to get outa jail before they killed us. Don’t make it go down any easier, does it?”

  Moseby looked away and said slowly, “He was my cousin, the one I killed.”

  Pit made a wide gesture. “C’mon now. Duffy ain’t nobody’s cousin.”

  Still, Sam wished he could talk to Renee. He knew she would be worrying now because he had not sent the promised letter. She would be playing the solemn music, and the customers would listen but not feel like dancing, although they wouldn’t understand why, and business in El Sol would fall off. There was always something. He made himself concentrate on the ways to handle Duffy.

  None of them heard Mary’s muffled exclamation from above except for the kid and Matilda, who were in her room.

  “Don’t tell Stubby and Sam,” Mary said, grabbing a hand on either side of the bed. “Don’t tell,” she said urgently as she was caught in another welcome, healthy, early spasm. She grinned happily, conspiratorially.

  Chapter Seven

  The man named Ed Fielder had a cast in his left eye, a sharp nose, and a bad complexion. He sat in Duffy’s office and said with assurance, “ ’Course I know. I know
every damn inch of this here country. I seen ’em. I had my spyglass.”

  “Ah, yes, me boy. So the Ranger is dead?” Duffy asked.

  “Deader’n a mackerel. Lyin’ across the saddle. Never moved an inch. Just danglin’.”

  “And the rains come,” mused Duffy. “Ah, have a touch of the whiskey, man.” He poured generously into a tumbler.

  Fielder drank eagerly. “I’ll be the foreman, you said.”

  “Of course, me boy.” It was a good thing Jackson wasn’t in the room, Duffy thought. Magrew and Jackson would be another problem once it was all settled. Maybe he could depend on Cemetery Jones to dispatch them, as they dispatched him.

  “Let that be a secret between us, now. Remember that,” Duffy said aloud.

  “I know. Some of them are jealous.” Fielder thought he knew more than the others. He had always thought himself denied his rightful place in the world. Stubby Stone had never recognized his ability. As for that black woman ... Well, he would see about her, too, when the time came.

  Duffy said, “This storm, now. There must be a way to put it to our advantage.” He paused, then said, “You say the raggedy kid was with them?”

  “I seen him with ’em. That was when they was fightin’ the Injuns.”

  “And Maizie?”

  “Couldn’t get close enough to spot her. I know she went to the Comanches with the guns.”

  “I see.” Duffy did not see and he did not understand. Maizie should have been back before now with the glad news that the Comanches would attack the Crooked S and steal the horses. Well, the rain, he thought. It was coming down pretty heavy, and there was lightning and thunder and all that.

  Fielder said, “Y’know the cattle get awful damn skittish in a storm like this one comin’ up.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your own herd, now. It could stampede.”

  “I’ve got riders out there.” More were coming in, he knew, a few Mexicans vaqueros, the best there were.

  “You’re sure about the Indians? Maizie got there?” Duffy asked again.

  “That’s all I know.” Fielder had been scared to go closer. He had maintained a safe distance from Maizie and the braves. His scalp tingled every time he thought about Comanches. “The cattle, now. That’s what I know best. I could go out there and straw-boss the riders.”

  “Ah, now, why don’t you do that, m’boy? You find Madero. You tell him I sent you to take charge.”

  “Sure! Where’ll I find him?”

  Duffy waved a hand. “Somewhere on my property. You know the land, you said. Look for him, m’boy.”

  “Sure. Well. Okay.” Fielder finished his drink and started for the door. “Uh, everything’s okay, right?”

  “Okay? Everything never is okay. Tell me again about that damned kid.”

  “Well, I seen her talkin’ to Maizie.” Fielder swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He had been a safe distance from that scene. “Her and Maizie. Then I seen her again with Jones and the pack animal, goin’ toward the Crooked S.”

  “A pack animal. What was the pack animal carryin’?”

  “That I couldn’t say.”

  “I see. So. Go to Madero. On the way out, tell Jackson and Magrew I want to talk with ’em.”

  The pack animal could be the one carrying the guns, Duffy thought. If Maizie and the kid ... The damned spy, Fielder, was a no-good skunk, a traitor of no talent except to nose about from afar. Besides which he was a liar when he could get away with it.

  Now the question was, what about the Comanches? Maizie could be taken care of later. The laudanum could be used to do her in, the little bitch. No matter what, she had no business conniving with the damned kid. He wanted that kid as he had not wanted anyone in all his life. He wanted her alive.

  Fielder had his uses. He had made a plan of the house and yard at the Crooked S. There were ways to attack it if it came to that. Enough men, enough fire power, and any ranch could be taken—lock, stock, and barrel. With the Ranger dead, it had to be successful if it was done quickly enough.

  Thunder sounded and lightning flashed. It was a night for action if he could put it all together as he had planned. Jackson and Magrew, he needed them more than they knew. He needed them to take care of Cemetery Jones.

  The gunmen came into the office. Duffy said, “Ah, me two top hands. Have a touch now, do.” He poured whiskey for them. They regarded him without speaking. He said, “Tonight, I do believe. Do ye agree?”

  Magrew shrugged, silent as usual. Jackson tossed down the booze and said, “What you got in mind, Duffy?”

  “They’ll be watchin’ the cattle, won’t they, now? We’ve got Madero and his banditos watchin’ ours.”

  Jackson said, “Reckon they will. It’s a night for keepin’ the herds quiet.”

  Duffy spread out the sketch Fielder had made atop his desk. “This is the way it stands, me boys. You see? It’s a strong house. But it has spots where it can be struck. Take a few of your men, get in close, and strike hard and fast.” Jackson looked at the drawing. “You aim to kill all them people?”

  “Oh, no, indeed. Just to make them see the light. Jones, of course. Jones will have to go.”

  “And that’s our job.”

  Duffy said, “A thousand dollars apiece above your pay if you get him.”

  “And his cemetery if we don’t.”

  “You hired on,” Duffy reminded him. “You knew I had to have the Crooked S to tie together what I want.” Magrew drained his glass and helped himself to more whiskey. Jackson stared at Duffy.

  “There’s a woman goin’ to have a baby out there. Fightin’s one thing. Murder, that’s another.”

  Duffy forced a laugh. “Murder, he says. Jones has already wounded Johnson and killed Max Kelsey altogether. Why else do they call him ‘Cemetery’? How can ye murder a man of his ken?”

  “I’m talkin’ about the woman. And what of the maverick kid you want so bad?”

  “The kid’s out there with ’em, I tell ye. The women are not to be harmed. I’ll kill anyone hurts the kid meself.”

  “Then you’re ridin’ with us?” There was a touch of sarcasm in Jackson’s voice.

  Duffy looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, “So that’s it. You’re thinkin’ because I hire scum like you that I’m scared?”

  He whipped a gun out of his desk drawer. Jackson and Magrew blinked at the sudden move.

  Duffy said, “Try me.”

  For a moment, it hung in the balance. Then Jackson threw his hands out and said, “So you’re ready.”

  “I didn’t get where I am by being a coward,” Duffy told him. “If you live long enough, you’ll know when to hire and when to do. The time has come for me to do. I’m ridin’.”

  Magrew spoke suddenly. “And if you get it, who pays us?”

  “Ah, now, y’see? There’s always that. Look at it this way. If they get me, all is lost, so ye come back here and take what you can find and hightail it for Mexico. What else? Ye know the way it is in a war. Winners take all, losers take what they can get.”

  “The man’s right,” said Jackson. “We hired on and it comes down to gettin’ Jones. Which is what we almost did, but we lost him. Now it’s fish or cut bait.”

  “Now you’re talkin’. So go, lads, and we’ll meet at the livery stable.”

  “We won’t leave without you,” said Jackson.

  Alone, Duffy went to a closet that occupied most of one wall. He slid back the creaking doors. His wardrobe was part of his pride; it contained an outfit for any occasion. He touched the finery from Mexico that he loved. There was the gold brocade jacket that his wife had given him, the poor, miserable woman. He shrugged and then from the shelf took a black sombrero to fit the weather and a long, divided slicker he had had made for him.

  It had been a hard life at times, mainly in the scheming, he thought, smiling to himself. The greatest lesson he had learned was to have others do for him. They were mainly fools and he used them. Stubby Stone had been t
he easiest of them all. For a fleeting second, he felt pity for the woman Stubby had married, then he shrugged again. All women were to be used; they were decorative and pleasing to the touch, and that was it. They produced offspring, but he had no desire to propagate himself.

  He was his own man, he boasted to himself. Self-made, self-contained, he was the master. With his wits and his drive for power, he would prevail, as had the giants of Texas before him. They had all swung a wide loop; they had all been robber barons in the beginning. He would be one of them and sit in high places, and Bowville would be his headquarters, his town in the Pecos country. He would be a king.

  It would be easy, too, were it not for that damned Cemetery Jones. Duffy buckled on his gun belt, donned the slicker, and went to have Simon bring his horse. Simon, the fool of fools, was his weakness, he admitted to himself. The gunmen and the riders worked for pay and kept a certain prideful independence. Simon was another matter, a bumbling slave. He had only to nod and Simon would rush eagerly to serve him. He needed a Simon.

  There were few customers in the saloon, only the poker players, a few heavy drinkers, and Simon. Duffy grandly ordered drinks on the house and waved Simon on his errand. He stood at the end of the bar, drank a double whiskey, and prepared himself to ride into the elements.

  In the town of Sunrise, the weather was clear, the stage came in on time, the jail was devoid of prisoners, and the eternal poker game for low stakes among the town councilmen went on and on in the saloon known as El Sol. Donkey Donovan came to Renee, who was at the piano, with a long face.

  “No mail,” he said.

  “He’s in trouble.” Renee played Chopin with a beat of her own.

  “He can always get outa trouble,” said the marshal.

  “He cannot get to the post office,” said Renee. “That means deep trouble.”

  “No news is good news?” Donkey tried to smile.

  “Not in this case,” she said. There were hollows beneath her eyes. “I have a sad feeling about this. I wish I could dissipate this feeling.”

  Donkey said, “Sam never loses, you know that.”

  “It’s really not his life for which I fear.” Her voice was very quiet. “It’s his soul.”